


Revenge of the Pink Devil

by RedFive



Series: Nothing Sweeter [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Copious amounts of alcohol - Freeform, Domestic Bliss, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal remembers Abigail, Hannibal remembers Mischa, Hannibal requires absolution, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, May the Frose be with you, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Will makes fun of Hannibal's age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7639057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFive/pseuds/RedFive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quest to recreate the perfect glass of frosé veers off course after our two murder husbands drink entirely too much. Will wants to fool around, but Hannibal is grappling with feelings--so many feelings. Will these two dorks successfully navigate this crisis of the heart or are things about to get broken again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge of the Pink Devil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [confusedkayt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedkayt/gifts).



> A little birthday present for the hostess with the most-est. Hannibae, I'm sorry, but you'll never make frosé as well as she can.

Even after four buckets of frosé, Hannibal still wasn't satisfied. How could this wretched cocktail be this challenging? Hannibal was as good at the culinary arts as any five-star michelin chef so why was this so difficult to figure out?

He stared at the final gulp in his glass with a look could break bone.

This last batch had been very good—the best actually—but everything he made was _always_ _good_. It just wasn't **right** _._ The only explanation he could come up with was that their bratty waitress had lied to him when he asked for the recipe. Had she omitted a step? Maybe she added something extra to purposely screw up the mixture. He could not fault her for protecting trade secrets, but every decision had a consequence. He growled as he considered a decision of his own.

The rumble in his chest caused Will to stir from his slumber. Hannibal looked down at his beloved and tried to calculate the number of buckets it would take to convince Will to accompany him on a little field trip of ill intent. The answer was _zero_ of course. Will would never kill for such a petty trifle, and Hannibal did not kill without approval.

Truth be told, it was only because Hannibal was a little tipsy that he entertained the thought of visiting the waitress at all. Innocents and most minor annoyances were quite literally off the table these days. This was the first rule that Will had imposed on Hannibal after agreeing to run away with him. More egregious acts of rudeness could still earn someone an invitation to their dinner table, but rule number two was that Will did not have to be present when it was done. Hannibal found it annoying in the beginning. Will was unpredictably particular about what he would and would not do, but things changed. Everything was so different now. He was different; _Will was very different;_ and they were together. Finally. Hannibal no longer felt the same cravings his previous life had—not in the same way at least—and it was more fun when Will picked their next mark anyway. The waitress would live, but others would not. This was the bargain they had struck because Will recognized that he still had to feed the beast (or beasts more accurately). When they went "out", Will allowed Hannibal to guide him through the dance macabre without fuss and depended on him to bring him safely home after every kill since as a fledgling killer there was a lot of room for error.

 _Home._ It wasn’t just a place. Home was a feeling of stability. It felt incredible to be relied upon by Will in his way after so many years of focusing on destabilizing him.  When Will's mind wandered too far into the darkness and the teacup began to crack, Hannibal's job was to put it back together _exactly as it has been before_. Will had been very specific on that point, which Hannibal was happy to agree to since he had grown very fond of the new china.

So Hannibal cooked, cleaned, and either rocked Will through his nightmares or fucked him to exhaustion when the mood or need arose. He protected their domestic life as fiercely as he had ever pursued the destruction of others. This sudden about-face and betrayal of several of his core values ought to be infuriating to a man of his sense and ego, but the roiling waters of the Atlantic had smoothed some of his rougher edges. Only one thing truly mattered now: the man asleep at his side.

Will's cheeks were stained pink from their boozy afternoon. It had been a nearly perfect day despite his many failed attempts in the mixology department.  Driven into each other's arms by the machinations and tart sweetness of the pink devil, the happy couple had kissed, cuddled, and slept intermittently throughout the day. It was near evening, and the red glow of twilight was beginning to seep into the room through the large french doors that lead to their balcony.

Hannibal kissed the top of his husband’s head and nuzzled that mop of weeping curls until Will rose to a state of half-alertness.

"Wake up, love. We still have two more bottles to try."

Will buried his face into Hannibal's chest and groaned. "You are obsessed."

Hannibal could feel Will's hot breath through his shirt. He chewed on his lip and resisted the urge to pull Will into his lap. "I am dedicated," he corrected.

"Your word. Not mine," Will said and pulled away to rub the sleep out of his eyes with those deadly hands of his. "Okay, fine. I guess I could have another."

Hannibal started to rise, but Will patted him gently on the stomach. "Sit. You got up the last two times. I've got this."

It would be rude to refuse his offer, but he worried Will might mess up the cocktail in the preparation. Hannibal look at him apprehensively. "Are you su—"

"Jesus Christ, Hannibal! I can crush ice," Will groused. Morning, noon, or night, he always woke up surly.

"Bring the Château Sainte Marguerite. I have a good feeling about that one," he said as Will retreated to the kitchen.

"I will," his husband shouted back.

"I Hannibal,” he said loud enough for Will to hear from the other room.

"FUCK YOU! YOU HUMORLESS, AFFECTED JERK!” Other expletives were soon swallowed by the sound of the blender.

Hannibal rested his head on the back of the couch and closed his eyes.  A broad, toothy grin was fixed to his face as he imagined Will angrily stomping around the kitchen. In general, Will was not a fan of most of his jokes, but he was particularly sensitive to any turn-of-phrase spun from his name. Hannibal had to admit it was not his best work. There was no subtlety about it at all, but he could not argue with the results. Sometimes a job required a scalpel and sometimes it required a cleaver. Will usually required the cleaver.

Will skulked back into the living room angrier than a bag of badgers. "You know, my name is technically Samuel now."

"Sam difference," Hannibal said without missing a beat. He had been hiding that card up his sleeve for a week.

The snarl that came out of Will's mouth was easily one of his best. It was as savage and threatening as a entire pride of lions. Hannibal opened his eyes just to be certain his beloved had not sprouted fangs and a tail while he was away, but Will was the same as always—shivering with kinetic potential and about to unravel in spectacular fashion.

Hannibal sat up and held his hand out. "Come," he beckoned keeping his expression soft and free of any self-satisfaction, which might push Will over the edge.

Will's hand tightened around the handle of the pitcher, not fully buying into the act, but he obeyed... _somewhat_. Rather than returning to his place beside Hannibal on the couch, Will sat himself down on his lap. He reached for an empty glass and poured himself a refill without acknowledging Hannibal in the slightest.

 _'So it is going to be like that, is it?'_ Hannibal slipped one hand beneath Will's shirt and pressed it into his back. He tried to bring their bodies closer together, but his husband tensed-up and resisted. When Will dug-in like this, he wanted something specific so Hannibal waited for the right moment.

When Will took his next large sip, Hannibal raked his nails firmly but carefully down his husband's lower back.

Will arched and kept drinking. Rivulets of sweet wine and simple syrup ran down his throat and complimented the movement of his Adam's apple in the most sublime way.

"How is it?" He asked and rubbed the scratches he had just left.

Will lowered the glass. He still looked angry, but the tenor of his rage had changed. He was angry _because he wanted to be angry._  "It's good. They've all been good."

"But is it right?"

Will set his glass down on the end table. "Stop," he said and took Hannibal's face in his hands. "You don't have to always be right."

"You exaggerate."

"Liar," Will said and kissed the bridge of his nose. "You want everything to be right. That's just how you are, but it's never going to be alright. Not all of it."

"That is rather fatalistic," Hannibal said and broke away from Will’s hands. He picked up the glass of frosé and sampled it for himself. _‘Bah, not this one either.’_ It was too acidic, and Will had not blended the ice long enough. Tomorrow he was following that waitress home and getting the correct recipe and to hell with Will’s approval.

"Fatalistic? Says the cannibal? You are walking, talking state of emergency, Hannibal, but I forgive you." He said it with a smile, but those three words were the vessels of a lot of history between them. They ate their way through one of the locked doors of Hannibal's mind palace and unleashed a memory he was in no fit state to deal with. The memory was of the day he realized that Abigail and Mischa would have celebrated their birthdays in the same month if they had both lived.

Oblivious to his lover's change in mood, Will was unbuttoning his shirt and started grinding his hips against Hannibal's crotch.

Hannibal captured Will's fingers in one hand and stilled them. He looked up into his husband's eyes, and felt the hot sting of tears pool on the ends of his eyelashes. "How?"

It was a question he'd never dared to ask. He remembered too clearly every look of contempt Will had leveled at him since he had killed Abigal. True those looks had become more rare after the Fall, but he knew that Will had not forgotten. You didn't forget something like that. Hannibal had certainly never forgotten the men who killed Mischa, and wasn't Abigail Will’s Mischa?

“Oh Hannibal,” Will’s eyes blazed with sympathy that Hannibal did not deserve. His beloved wiped the tears away from his cheeks, but new tracks replaced the old. "You're right. I don't forgive you."

The admission stung even if it was expected. "Why do you stay then?" Hannibal asked and abandoned his glass. He rested his hands on Will's waist framing the mean scar he had left him with on that night so many years ago.

"You know that we can't survive without each other. Conjoined, remember?"

"You could try again—to kill us both. You still fantasize about it. I know you do."

"I'm not going to kill you, Hannibal,”  Will said with a mischievous grin. He finished removing his shirt and continued to rub against him. "The sex is too good."

Will smelled like heat and sugar and despite his melancholy, Hannibal was aroused past the point of return. He leaned forward, and Will pivoted knowing exactly what they both needed. Hannibal kissed one of Will’s nipples and teased it with his tongue.

Will crushed a sigh with his teeth before it tumbled across his lips."At least it is when you remember to put your dentures in, old man."

Hannibal needed no further goading. He bit down, hard, and Will made his pleasure known this time. Hannibal left sharp kisses all over Will's chest creating an impressionistic painting of red and purple marks on his husband’s creamy skin.

Eventually, Will knit his hands through Hannibal’s hair and pulled his mouth away from his chest. "I forgive us, Hannibal. That's why I stay. Now let's go upstairs. Apparently you need to learn what the definition of conjoined is.”

"Allow me," Hannibal said. When he stood he lifted Will up.

Will panicked. He wrapped his legs around Hannibal's waist and threw his arms around his neck. "Are you insane!?!" he shouted. “Put me down!”

 _‘Yes’_ was the answer to that question. But insanity aside, they would have still been fine if Hannibal were not also impaired by those four buckets of frosé.

Hannibal teetered and then fell. The couple landed on the antique coffee table, which shattered into dozens of pieces beneath their weight.

Hannibal took the worst of it, falling on his back with Will on top of him. "Ooof," he gasped and batted Will's hands away, which were instantly all over him checking for injury.

"Are you okay!? Are you hurt? You're not bleeding are you? What the hell were you thinking!?!" his husband fussed.

Hannibal laughed uncontrollably at Will’s sudden shift from sex kitten to mother hen. "I'm fine," he said and propped himself up on his elbow so he could kiss Will's concern away.

The younger man was not having any of it at first, but Will soon opened his mouth to Hannibal's probing tongue.

"We should **_walk_ ** to the bedroom,” he murmured against Hannibal's lips. "I don't want splinters in my ass."

"That's not what I want in your ass either," Hannibal said and exhaled sharply when Will rolled his hips in response.

It was too much. The wine. The destruction. Will's needling. Hannibal was already undoing his belt buckle, while Will fought with the buttons on his shirt. It didn't look like they were going to make it to the bedroom, but maybe they could at least make it back to the couch. Maybe.

The doorbell rang in the middle of all of this, and both men froze.

"Shit," Will said. "Bet it’s the neighbors. We must have been too loud."

"You are always too loud."

Will punched Hannibal's shoulder before climbing off of him. "What now?"

They looked at each other knowing that neither one of them was in any fit state to answer that door, but answer it, they must.

"Let me handle this,” Hannibal sighed. “Your French is terrible. Wait for me upstairs."

Will nodded and Hannibal got up, re-buttoned his shirt, and walked to the foyer.

It was indeed their neighbors, an elderly couple named Adele and Corbin.

"Are you okay?" They stuttered in French, clearly shocked by Hannibal's mussed hair and flushed complexion. This was a version of their prim and proper neighbor they had never met before.

"Yes, my husband and I were moving some furniture around. There was a small accident with one of the more delicate pieces. Sorry to be a bother.”

"Furniture?" They asked bewildered by his nonsense excuse. “That was quite the crash.”

“Indeed, but as you can see, we are fine. Thank you for your concern,” Hannibal said politely. He wanted nothing more than to slam the door in their faces and charge upstairs; however, appearances needed to be maintained.

_Or so he thought..._

When he heard footsteps behind him, he did not immediately put two-and-two together. Hannibal looked over his shoulder and could not believe what he saw.

Will walked into the foyer still shirtless and covered in the marks of their earlier exertions. His belt hung around his waist unbuckled. His hair was more tousled than when Hannibal had left him. "Leo, we weren't finished. Would you mind giving me a hand with one last thing," Will said in English, but the language barrier hardly mattered. His little performance made the message quite clear.

All three onlookers stayed statue still in various degrees of shock.

"In a moment. Let me bid farewell to our friends," Hannibal said in French for the benefit of their visitors.

Will licked his bottom lip lewdly and walked back in the direction he had come from.

Hannibal stood there gaping. Will tended to be the modest one in their relationship. What on Earth had gotten into him? Whatever the reason, Hannibal was certainly ready to reverse his opinion on the last five batches of frosé at the very least.

Adele and Corbin made their hasty and scandalized apologies before departing.

Hannibal looked for Will and found him in the kitchen instead of the bedroom where he’d been instructed to wait. “What was that about, _Samuel_?”

Will was preparing the final pitcher of frosé, now naked as the day he was born. “Making sure they didn’t come back when it got loud again."

Hannibal was not going to argue with that. He got two fresh glasses out of the cupboard and waited at Will’s side.

“I know we said we were going to work on the bedroom next, but have you given any thought to moving the dining room table instead?”  Will asked as he poured out two heaping portions of the pink slush.

“I have always wanted you on my table, love.” Hannibal picked up his glass and took a sip. He tutted and drank another.

“So? How is it?” Will asked.

Hannibal looked at his husband—his beautiful, unpredictable Will—and thanked God for delivering such a creature into his care. “It is perfect.”


End file.
